A Cold and Somber Sunday
by CatInFrance
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, one-shot. He walks by every day and she worries about him, soaked through in the rain. Today, he notices her. But what could make a person so sad?


She watches out the window while the rain comes down in buckets, sleet and hail and cats and dogs. The afternoon is quiet, but not yet complete. The customers enjoy their teas and coffees and for now, are content to let her be. She is waiting.

He has a ritual, she knows, and he probably doesn't think anyone notices. The rain is something terrible, and since she's never seen him with an umbrella, she wonders if he won't be coming. She glances at the clock on the wall and bites her bottom lip. Late. One of the tables asks her for sugar and she scurries away, one eye still on the window, lest she miss his passing. She wouldn't forgive herself for that. She knows it's silly. She's only a waitress in a tea shop, for god's sake, but for a few minutes each day, she takes the luxury of being a guardian angel.

Sometimes, she thinks she recognizes his face. It's a foggy thought, some days stronger than others, but maybe he was involved in one of those trials, the high publicity kind that invades the papers and talk shows, the ones that people discuss on the street in little whispers. She's never paid attention to that, too much hype for her taste, but this one was hard to dismiss. What was his name? she wonders. It had a familiar rhythm to it. Maybe it started with an S.

She deposits the sugar quickly, because she sees the swirl of black coat edge into the window pane. She hurries and glances around, but it's a Sunday, so everyone is pleased sitting quietly. To the window. Staring out under the dark and slate and somber sky, he walks. The rain hits his face, hurdles against it in bombs and droplets. It's fierce weather, not meant for walking in, and even the other side of the street's obscured, but he doesn't flinch. His curls today are soaked through, slicked down and plastered to his face. His scarf looks like it's sopping too, and she frowns, thinking how he must be frozen to the bone. He heart twists.

He has that look on his face again. She sees it most every day, but never gets used to it. Too much agony for eyes to hold, more rain-drenched melancholy than any face should bear, grief deep in his solemn pace.

Only being _that_ sad would let you walk in the rain and not feel it.

He looks over today, and she stops breathing, swearing that he's looking right through her. He doesn't see her. But then his eyes turn back to focus and his head tilts at her face. He stops moving. A perplexed expression plays across his features, the first time she's ever seen them straight on (_and what features they are!_ she thinks, a little guiltily). Is it amusement that graces the sides of his lips and fills in the hollow places in his face? The rain bounces of his shoulders and before she knows what she's doing…

The rain is sliding down her cheeks and saturating her apron, and then the words are already out of her mouth. She's speaking to him. To _him_. Her heart might burst. "Would you like some—" It comes out too fast, and he's looking down at her to see her eyes. _Down_. She realizes how tall he is. The rest becomes a demure squeak. "Can I get you some tea?"

The expression of pain slips back, but he tries to hide it when he shakes his head. The effort of being polite to her (_oh, lord, is she causing him more hurt?_) tightens his mouths and he replies in a voice dark and alluringly smoke-stained, "No…thanks." A falteringly attempted smile, like he's trying hard not to crush her feelings, like he's done this before. He turns away to resume his path. His shoulders drop.

Her voice goes before her head again. "Sorry, but have you lost someone?"

He rotates. His dark coat curls as his torso twists, his feet readjust in the puddles. Through the storm pounding down, she can't tell if maybe, just maybe tears are in his eyes. His face drips anyway. He pauses, considering how to answer her, weighing if he will at all. His eyes are sincere, shiny little prayers. He shakes his head, just the smallest of movements.

"No," he says. "But someone's lost me."

Then he leaves, as always, and the storm conceals him as he goes. She walks off the street and rests in the doorway of the shop, leaning. Thinking. Will he look for her tomorrow? Will he see her now? She's not sure if she wants him too. The lonely man in the scarf and coat, whose face she almost knows. She's his guardian angel. So, as always, she will wait, and he will pace past.

But this time, she will put out a cup of tea for that someone who's lost him, and when he stops, _if_ he stops...he will find his way back to them.


End file.
